


Beat your arrows into (fake) wands

by randomlyimagine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: ALL OF IT, All the banter, Clint and Kate smooshed together almost make one competent adult, Clint is pretty heavily comics hawkeye, Crossover, Gen, Hermione doesn't want to have to deal with intruders in the ministry, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Spies & Secret Agents, draco doesn't want to have to deal with the ridiculous banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22050643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomlyimagine/pseuds/randomlyimagine
Summary: An alien artifact ends up in the Ministry of Magic.For Clint Barton and Kate Bishop, aka Hawkeye and Hawkeye, this means an all-expenses-paid infiltration trip to London.For Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, and a number of miscellaneous Aurors, this means a lot of headaches.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Kate Bishop
Comments: 16
Kudos: 151





	Beat your arrows into (fake) wands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sperrywink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sperrywink/gifts).



> My very, very, very belated (but still technically on time!) prompt answer for Fandom Trumps Hate, which works to help organizations the Trump administration is targeting.
> 
> Infinite apologies to sperrywink for the lateness. And thanks to them, for giving me a really, really fun prompt to work with. Even though I took almost a year. Have an extra 1.8k words as a thank you for your patience (and because I can't be concise).
> 
> Title is a bastardization of the Bible quote “They shall beat their swords into plowshares" and the name of a nonprofit that works to give veterans jobs, although my use of it is not as deep as the allusion makes it sound at all
> 
> For Harry Potter, this is set some vague number of years after Deathly Hallows. At least five, but other than that, imagine it wherever you want. Continuity on the Hawkeye side is basically the backstory of the Marvel movies up to Age of Ultron, but in between the movies, the Matt Fraction Hawkeye run happened. And, somehow, the new West Coast Avengers book. Which is delightful and you should all read.

“Hey, _you’re_ the one who didn’t tell _me_ that you had magic powers, even though we’re both fucking superheroes,” Kate hissed. She didn’t succeed in being discreet, but at least she knew it. Also, no one in the Pizza Hut was paying attention, especially given that it was 11:30 p.m. and Britney Spears was blasting at full volume. Because that was the life that the two Hawkeyes lived.

“Sorry,” Clint retorted, dry, as he lazed against the vinyl bench seat. “Didn’t realize I owed you an accounting of my whole life, like some bratty little sister.”

Kate reared back theatrically. “You take that back! Or else I’ll fill all your net arrows with off-brand silly string!”

“ _Off-brand_ silly string? Them’s fightin’ words.”

“Yeah, so either fight me or admit your reason for not telling me.”

“ _Sometimes_ you need an ace in the hole.”

“That time I got turned into a giant evil Hawk-monster didn’t qualify for your ace in the hole? There were like six pseudo-Godzillas!”

“That went fine! You’re the one who told us not to turn you back sooner!”

“Fine except for all the property damage!”

“There were TV cameras!”

Kate narrowed her eyes. She was _not_ going to let Clint distract her. “We’ve been working together for four years and lived together for two of them, and I don’t believe for a second you could have actually hidden this.”

Then it was Clint’s turn to be theatrical: He rolled his eyes so hard they could have punched through a brick wall. “I’m capable of hiding things, Katie-Kate, I am a _professional spy_.”

“A professional spy who hid the spare key to our apartment in our mailbox.”

“So?” Clint said, like that decision hadn’t been 95% laziness. “No one ever steals a mailbox key. No one would’ve gotten in.”

“Except, y’know, _the mailman_.”

Clint pointedly didn’t answer. He just stared straight ahead at their slowly baking pizza.

Kate humored him for a full minute and forty-five seconds, mostly because the pizza was fat and glistening and well worth staring at. All that delicious cheese, soon to be in her stomach.

“So, for real, why didn’t you tell me?”

Clint grimaced. “Look, they’re a little…” he muttered something inaudible.

“Dude, I’m Hawkeye, not Hawk _ear_.”

Clint grimaced harder. “I _said_ they’re a little dodgy.”

“Oh.” Kate’s face immediately started warring between concern—about the fact that they were about to use those same magic powers to break into the Magic British White House—and joy at a new wellspring of potential mockery.

“Look, they’re fine, but it was hard to practice. My situation growing up was pretty precarious by the time I found them out, and then—well, let’s just say that when you work for a government spy agency, you make very sure that no one finds out about your illicit powers. Especially back before powers became common knowledge. I did _not_ want to be dissected.”

“Aww, I’m sure they would have stuck to vivisection.”

“Kate. That’s worse.” Clint paused for a moment, but the way his eyes were darting around told Kate that it was the kind of silence that meant he had more to say. “Also, every time I used magic when I was a teenager, the wizards somehow found out and called in the wizard police and hauled me off for illegal magic use. So, yknow, it wasn’t exactly my first option.”

Joy won the fight for Kate’s face. “You mean you have a _magical_ arrest record?”

“ _Technically_ , yes, but it’s in the US, so it’s fine. Besides, having a mundane arrest record never stopped me before, and I’ve had one of those since age twelve.”

Kate sighed. “You’re just lucky SHIELD regularly expunges your record.”

“Yeah, but don’t go saying that where SHIELD can hear you. Interferes with my ability to play dumb about favors.”

Kate snickered. “Well I’ll help you play dumb to them if you don’t play dumb with me right now and tell me the actual plan for breaking into the Magic British White House.”

Clint smirked. “Shoot things with arrows.”

“…Please tell me you have more than that.” 

—

Clint did, in fact, have more than that. And because the two of them had _some_ sense of professionalism, he waited until they were back at their apartment to tell her.

Also, the Pizza Hut had kicked them out.

“A phone booth?” Kate asked incredulously. “So did Doctor Who somehow rip off these guys, or did these guys somehow rip off Doctor Who?”

“Why do you think I know?” Clint asked. Half-attentive, because he was feeding Pizza Dog a third slice of pizza.

“ _Somehow_ you’re the resident expert on this shit.”

“I am an expert on _many things_ —”

“Like dumpster interiors,” Kate coughed.

“— _Look_ , forget about the phone booth. We just need to use it to get in. And to get out, I guess, but we’re not doing that until we’ve located and retrieved the alien tech.

Because not enough people in the world had access to illicit alien tech. Wizards—actual fucking wizards—needed to add themselves to the list.

If Kate and Clint were lucky, the wizards had added themselves unknowingly. Bruce or Tony had found the exotic radiation it gave off on a routine scan, and when it had stubbornly and impossibly refused to show its location on a map more specifically than _London_ , Clint had volunteered himself. And voluntold Kate. Not that she minded too much, because magic. And because hey, free trip to England.

But since there hadn’t been any word of alien ships crashing, on the news or through the Avengers grapevine, it was possible the wizards didn’t actually know what they’d picked up.

“So,” Kate said, swiping the last piece of pizza just before Clint or the dog could, “what exactly can you do?”

—

Thankfully, Tony Stark was rich enough that he could just lend them a private jet. There was no way they’d have gotten their actual arsenal into England otherwise.

Clint’s magic was decent enough to get them into the Ministry of Magic, yeah, but he was a laws-of-physics guy at heart. (Not that he felt like it, standing next to Bruce and Tony.) And Kate _definitely_ wasn’t going in unarmed.

(Clint carefully didn’t ask her if she—the former heiress to the Bishop fortune—missed that kind of insane, rich-people perk. He knew the answer, anyway.)

—

The Hawkeyes, upon arriving in England, had two problems.

One, it was raining, which causing Kate's hair to be distinctly poofy and Clint's hair to be incredibly flat.

Two, there were several days of reconnaissance needed before they could infiltrate. Most of which was carried out by Clint, while Kate took care of the weapons and the shopping and the non-mission-related shopping.

Three…

"What do you _mean_ , you can't see it? It's _right there_!" Clint hissed. Hopefully the fact that they were both trying to crowd under what had to be an undersized umbrella would make it look less weird.

"And I believe you," Kate hissed back, "I just don't see a phone booth."

"Fuck."

"Fuck," Kate agreed. "I swear to Captain America, if I can't see the place we're literally infiltrating..."

"Fuck."

Kate womanfully resisted the temptation to repeat it back again. They'd done the swear-back-and-forth thing before, and the only productive thing it had ever resulted in was getting them kicked out of a Starbucks.

"Okay," Clint huffed. "I'm just going to drag you into the phone booth, and hope that'll let you see it."

"Shit, yeah, fine, let's do that." Anything that would keep her from feeling useless.

So Clint grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward the brick wall of the dingy alleyway. He then grabbed at what looked like the air to Kate and pushed it behind her as she came forward. Then they were standing really weirdly close, and man did Kate hope that they weren't visible from the street, because standing inappropriately close in a dingy alley was the king of thing that got her accused of being Clint's mistress. Again.

Clint didn't even have to ask to tell it hadn't worked. "Fuck. Okay. We're gonna try one more thing before we leave and regroup."

Then he poked at the air and Kate squashed down a sudden, bitter wave of jealousy. Most of the time she was fine being a powerless, extraorindary-tech-less human in a profession that had very few of them, but that had been easier right up until the moment she'd found out that Clint wasn't in there with her.

Also, magic.

But she wasn’t going to mention that part, because magic? Magic had clearly hurt Clint. Even without the fear of dissections. It wasn't hard to see, not when Clint had said his abilities were _dodgy_. Yeah, Clint had his rough patches, and yeah, Kate and Clint probably, when shoved together, almost made one whole functional adult. But for him to leave a part of himself with so much fighting-related potential with any weaknesses, any dubiousness, any ignorance of his own ability? That said something, even if Kate wasn't going to ask what.

Then Clint was grabbing the lapel of her coat, reaching around behind it in a weird pinning motion—

And then there was a silver pin on Kate's jacket. And a phone booth around them.

" _Yes_!" She shouted, punching the air, and very definitely not the wall of the phone box.

Clint's shit-eating grin was its own reward.

They had some wizards to rob.

—

All it took was some more button-pushing—button-pushing that Kate could actually _see_ —and they were dumped in a room unlike anything Kate had ever seen. There were dozens of people moving around, all in floor-length robes, mostly black, but there were some gorgeous jewel tones that Kate definitely wanted to try some normal clothes in. Some of them were wearing actual, honest-to-God witches' hats. Some of them were walking into giant, human-sized fireplaces, yelling things, and disappearing into a burst of green flame. There was a giant statue with a fucking centaur, and some other magical creatures that she didn't recognize. The ceiling was peacock blue and covered in symbols that were _moving_.

Kate _really_ hoped she didn't look like a total, gawking tourist. Or, well, a non-magical person who'd snuck in to steal something. And hey, she was wearing fake wizard’s robes—and walking past a whole bunch of other people wearing them made her feel a bit less ridiculous.

"Wands, please," asked the short, stout man standing in front of the golden entrance gate, which led to a number of lifts and, possibly, parts of the building that involved fewer human-sized fireplaces.

“Sure thing,” Clint said in a passable British accent, pulling out one of the arrow shafts he’d sanded down and polished as Kate did the same.

Kate smiled and leaned in toward the man, who’d taken their “wands” and was waving his own over them. “So, how’s it going? Must be interesting, working a job like this, getting to see so many different kinds of people every day.”

The man shrugged, not looking up from what he was doing.

“And such an important job, too,” Kate continued, making sure to get rid of her _R_ s and do all the other things English people did, as she put her elbows up on the edge of the podium and got herself less than a foot from the man’s face. The material of the fake witch’s robes billowed underneath her arms. “Trusted to inspect everyone’s wands, make sure no harm comes to the—”

“What?” the wand registrar said, looking at their wands, brows furrowed.

“What?” Clint asked, as innocently as he could. And dopily, in Kate’s expert opinion.

“These aren’t wands!” The man drew himself up. “What exactly do you two think you’re—”

The room exploded into smoke.

Well, half the room, by Kate’s estimate. It had been a pretty big room.

The man was yelling for the guards, the crowd was yelling for help, but none of it mattered. Kate and Clint were already across the room, having diverged in the cloud because anyone who saw them come in would have seen them together.

They exited the smoke could at the same time, a quarter of the room across from each other. By the time they did, Kate’s hair was down from its complicated updo, and Clint had added a pair of fake glasses. (More elaborate disguises had been prevented by the fact that wizard clothing was fucking weird.)

But it looked like it was enough, because as long as they came out looking panicky and confused, all the other panicky and confused people would assume they were uninvolved.

And they were both heading for the second lift from the right at the far end of the room. Along with, conveniently, a few dozen actual wizards.

"Aurors! Aurors!" Kate yelled. She didn't know what those were, exactly, but other people were shouting for them, so it would probably be a good way to throw off anyone pursuing—

Like the guards she could see sweeping through the room. Not a terrible response time, but not a great one, either, Kate thought, as one of them held her tiny stick aloft and yelled something that cleared out all the smoke.

 _Great_ , Kate thought.

Or not a guard, actually, because the woman’s robes were a different color than the ones belonging to all of the obvious guards. Maybe 5’5”; long, black, Afro-textured hair; dark skin; dark blue robes; large sheaf of books and papers clutched to her chest; clearly fast on the draw.

But it didn't matter, because Kate and Clint had already piled into a lift crammed with panicky wizards. Headed, as soon as its doors closed, to some unknown location.

Of course, they were almost certainly going to be locked inside the Ministry as part of whatever security procedures it had. But that was a problem for Future Kate and Clint.

—

Things Hermione liked in life: Books. Libraries. Magic. Her husband. Pumpkin juice. Magical creature rights.

Things Hermione did not like in life: Attacks on the Ministry.

Maybe it was the whole thing where she'd fought a war before she turned eighteen, but Hermione Granger had had enough of fighting. She would much rather go back to living a life of fighting equal rights for muggleborns and magical creatures, quietly, without any _shenanigans_.

But that was, apparently, not the life she lived. And the Ministry's guards were still not up to standard—not that anyone had asked her about battle-ready standards—so she wouldn't be able to just leave the whole mess in their hands, either.

She had seen the people likely behind the attack, briefly—she'd only just arrived for her meeting on werewolf employment rights, and had passed through Mr. Munch's wand registration only minutes before the explosion of smoke.

In the time since the war, she'd mostly turned off her hypervigilance—after a great amount of effort and years of jumping at pointed wands in the corner of her eye. But she'd never managed to turn it off enough that she didn't notice people yelling in that _particular_ tense voice. And especially not when it happened in the Ministry.

The people that Mr. Munch had been about to yell at had been a middle-aged man and a young woman, blonde and black-haired, respectively. It was hard to tell, in the chaos, but she'd blown all of the smoke away, and she couldn't see either of them still in the room.

So. The lifts, then.

Only truly stupid attackers would have stayed in the room when the guards were—futilely—trying to round everyone up.

Even so many years later, it was simple for Hermione to dodge the sweeping line of guards and join all of the other people piling into the lifts.

At least the Ministry had retained the basic competence to shut down the floos. Somehow.

And that just left the question of which floor they were most likely to target.

Well. The options were the Minister's office, the courtrooms, the Department of Mysteries, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

No trials were planned for that day. The Minister's office was one of the only places in the building that Hermione _would_ consider to have decent security. The Department of Mysteries was the other.

Which left the place she would be most helpful as the place she would scout first.

—

Things Draco liked in life: His mother. His work. The color green. Snakes (obviously). The fact that Voldemort was dead.

Things Draco did not like in life: Having people burst into his lab while he was in the middle of working on a very difficult and highly dangerous cursed object.

Or, at least, it had shot out some sort of blast, possibly a weaponized _expulso_ , so it was definitely dangerous. The fact that it was failing to respond to every single method of curse detection he'd tried, however...

But he'd been reprimanded the weeks before for not being "accommodating enough" or "personable enough" toward "coworkers, visitors to the Ministry, and members of the general public." So he looked up, forced his face into something that was at least neutral, and said, "Office of Cursed and Malicious Objects. How may I help you?"

" _Shit_!" One of his visitors yelled, in an unexpected American accent. "Don't touch that thing!"

Draco snorted. Reprimand or not, he was not going to listen to some young American tell him how to do his job, especially one who had such a poor grasp on manners.

"Seriously, kid," the older one said, a man with light blonde hair and an American accent that managed to be even more obnoxious, _possibly because he was calling Draco a kid_ , "stop poking that thing, it will _definitely_ blow up in all our faces."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Are you saying you know what this is?"

The two intruders looked at each other. "Uhh," the man said, at the same time as the woman said, "What is it to know something, really?"

Then the Ministry's alarms went off. The ones signalling a hostile incursion.

"Fuck," the man muttered, and Draco supposed it was useful to know that the stereotypes about Americans and profanity really were true.

And then he tensed, wand lifting to a defensive posture as the other man drew—

Not a wand. Some sort of...black metal box. A pair of connected rectangles.

"What is that supposed to be?" Draco asked, not letting his wand lower an inch.

"It's a _gun_ ," the woman said, eyes rolling. "Do you seriously not know what a gun is? I mean there's isolated and then there's not knowing what a gun is. Next you'll have never heard of planes."

"What's a plane?" Draco asked. Mostly to piss her off.

The woman sighed explosively, but the man just rolled his eyes. "This is what a gun is."

There was a _bang_ , so loud it left Draco's ears ringing. 

He had a shield up around him as fast as a thought, but there was no flare of light, nothing hit him, the weapon seemed to have done nothing at all.

Then the man cocked his head to the side, pointing. Draco carefully, carefully turned his head, still keeping his wand trained on the intruders.

There was a hole in the wall behind him. The stone wall. There was something glinting inside it, but Draco couldn't tell what it was, because it had buried several centimetres into the wall.

The hole was about four centimetres from his head.

“Sorry about this, kid," the man said. "But we're gonna need that thing you're working on."

"Why?" Draco asked. He needed to stall for time—his department was small, and everyone else had been on their lunch break while he'd decided to keep working. His offices wouldn't be the first place the Aurors and guards checked in the event of an intrusion, not even the tenth place, but eventually they would come. And even if they didn't, Draco wasn't exactly useless in a fight.

The man shrugged. "Y'know. Preventing mayhem. Stopping accidental harm to civilians. The works."

"You're threatening to put some kind of hole through my head, and I'm supposed to believe that you're _preventing_ harm?"

"We don't really need you to believe it," the woman said. "Just put down your stick and give us the doohickey."

" _Stick_?" And a muggle weapon? "Wait, are you even _wizards_?"

"Nope," the young woman said, smiling and popping the _P_. "So, doohickey?"

But Draco was trying very hard not to sputter. "This place is warded against muggles, how did you even get _in here_?"

"Youthful zest for life."

"If you're muggles, then you must not have the slightest idea what a wizard can do," Draco said, stepping toward them, making sure they were closer to him than to the artifact on the table at his side. Muggles, of all people—but that meant he could win this.

The woman reached into her bag and pulled out...a crossbow? "And I don't think we're gonna find out."

Then the woman was on her knees, bound in ropes and the crossbow was on the floor.

"Hey!" she was shouting, but that didn't matter, because Hermione Granger was behind her.

The man threw himself back, turning so that both of them were in his view. He landed in that position just as Draco's own _Immobulus_ reached him—

And bounced away harmlessly.

"Muggle, huh?" Draco asked.

"Why would they be muggles?" Granger asked. "They got into the Ministry. Just because a wizard decided to use a gun doesn't mean he's a muggle."

"They said they were," Draco answered, refusing to let any irritation creep into his voice. He'd mended fences with Granger over the years, even worked with her on some of her campaigns, much to the dismay of half the people he knew. But that didn't mean she had to question his basic deduction capabilities.

"Technically, she said she wasn't a wizard," the man said. "I didn't say anything."

"And you're using a gun because...?" Granger asked, brow arching.

The man shrugged. "Force of habit?"

"Do you really call non-wizards _muggles_?" The woman asked. From where she was still tied up on the floor, because she wasn't even capable of casting the countercurse, because she was a muggle. Apparently. Somehow. "That sounds so insulting. Like, did you intentionally just cram together the words _muggy_ and _muddled_ or something? I mean, come on, it sounds like a fucking starter Pokémon." 

"A what?" Draco asked. When he looked over at Granger to see if she had any idea what they were talking about, she looked...constipated? Like she definitely knew what that meant and was unpleasantly startled to realize she might have to agree.

"Guns aside," Granger said, "I have your compatriot, and I wouldn't bet on bullets against a shield charm. So I think you're going to put down your gun and explain what, exactly, you're doing here."

"They want the object I was working on," Draco cut in, pointing.

Granger didn't take her eyes off the man to glance at it.

"You know," the man said, "I think we got off on the wrong foot. We're really just here being good Samaritans. That thing could seriously hurt someone, and we just want to stop that from happening."

"Also," the woman said, as she was _standing up_ , the ropes falling to her sides. She was waving a knife in a disgustingly jaunty manner. "Do you have any idea how fast bullets go? Because that's like over a thousand meters per second, and I'm not so sure how your little shield would hold up."

"Seriously," the man said before Draco or Granger could say anything. "Wrong foot. We're the good guys."

"And why are the good guys trying to steal cursed objects from the Ministry?" Granger asked.

"Because it's not cursed," the woman said.

"Hawkeye," the man groaned.

"Hawkeye," she said back, pointedly. Then she turned back to Granger. "I'm Hawkeye. This weirdo here is also Hawkeye. And that's not a cursed object."

"Incredibly helpful," Granger said.

"Oh, really?" Draco asked at the same time. "I wasn't aware that muggles could make objects that could—"

"We definitely could," the female Hawkeye, or whatever, said, "but also it's alien tech. Not magic. So we're here to take it off your hands."

 _Alien tech_? Draco can admit that the wizarding world is fairly isolated from the muggle one, but he did, at least, hear about it when aliens had blown up New York City. It was all the muggleborns would talk about for weeks, and then once other planets were proven to have sapient life, a number of conferences were held among the higher-ups in the magical world. None of which Draco had been invited to, as a former Death Eater, reformation aside.

"And I suppose you're the proper authorities to handle and safely dispose of alien tech?" Granger asked. It was deeply satisfying to see her pointed, haughty skepticism turned on someone Draco disliked, for once.

"We are, actually," the man said.

"Yeah, it shows," Draco shot back.

"Like he said," the woman drawled, "we got off on the wrong foot. Sorry about holding you at gunpoint. Not our first choice of move, but we didn't know how much time we have. Still don't, because I'm sure the guards will be here eventually, and that? Is a piece of one of the ships that blew up New York."

Draco's head whipped around to stare at the object. He supposed it did look...unusual...but he'd just chalked it up to the eccentricities of certain wizards.

“We're with the Avengers, if that helps," the man said.

Granger's eyes narrowed. "Hawkeye, you said."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I suppose you do look like the Hawkeye on the news broadcasts. You, specifically—I wasn't aware there was a second Avenger named Hawkeye."

"There is!"

"She's not an Avenger!"

The two Hawkeyes stared at each other.

"I'm basically an Avenger."

The man sighed. "It is still not my fault the Avengers won't recruit an eighteen-year-old. But if we could _focus_ , yeah, we're Avengers, this is kinda our job."

"Last I heard," Granger said, "Hawkeye didn't have any powers."

"Fucking publicists," the man muttered. "It's..." he made a wiggle-like gesture with his hand. "A thing. Ish."

Granger's eyes narrowed, but it was less hostile than plenty of the looks she'd aimed at Draco over the years. Or the one she'd been aiming at the Hawkeyes just moments ago. "You've never been trained, have you? That's why you got caught at registration. You didn't have a real wand."

The man grimaced. 

"Hey," his companion said, "only I get to insult him."

"I'm not insulting him," Granger replied, brows furrowed and mouth downturned. "I'm stating a conclusion. One that must be...sad. Having magic and never having learned how to use it."

"It is what it is," the man said.

Granger’s sympathetic look deepened, but then she got that resolved look that usually preceded someone getting hexed. "Prove to me you're it's alien technology, and you can have the object."

" _Excuse_ me?" Draco shouted. "Granger, this is my laboratory!"

"Do you have any proof that it isn't alien technology, Malfoy? Any evidence that it's actually cursed?"

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Not yet."

"Look," the woman said, finally lowering the knife. "I don't have magic. So if it's cursed, I can't make it work, right? But if I can make it blast something, then it has to be alien tech. Because it's definitely not Earth tech."

Draco looked at Granger. He raised an eyebrow. She shrugged.

"Fine," Draco said, and motioned the woman over.

"Okay," she said, "so which of these walls do you like the least?"

Internally, Draco despaired. Externally, he pointed at his coworker's Chudley Cannons poster.

"Oh, sick, it's moving," the woman said. Then picked up the...object...and poked it in a few places.

Then there was a bright red streak of light and a hole in the middle of the poster.

Granger sighed. "Aliens."

Draco very, very deeply felt her pain. "Because all the shit we went through wasn't enough."

Granger smiled back at him, tight but real. Then she turned back to the woman. "Okay. Let's get you out of here before the guards show up, Hawkeyes."

"Hey, don't include me in this," Draco said, even as he was pulling on his outer robe.

The man smiled. "It's Clint. And Kate. And thanks."

"No," Granger huffed, "thank you. The last thing we need is the Ministry getting its hands on alien technology."

Draco tried not to grimace. Granger really, really wasn't wrong.

—

An hour later, Draco had a phone number for Kate and Clint to use in case any other alien artifacts turned up—and, more usefully, Granger had it too, because Draco refused to ask what a phone was. He had his pride.

Clint had an offer from Granger to train him in actual magic.

And Kate and Granger? They had a shared and utterly terrifying appreciation for smoke-bomb-related tactics.

**Author's Note:**

> Kate as a giant hawk-monster really did happen in #4 of the new West Coast Avengers. [Here's your obligatory reference image, please look, it's great.](https://imagesvc.timeincapp.com/v3/fan/image?url=https://bamsmackpow.com/wp-content/blogs.dir/308/files/2018/11/wca4modok.jpg&c=sc&w=959&h=686)
> 
> Also Clint's hearing aids still work in the Ministry because he's definitely doing subconscious/silent magic to keep them that way


End file.
